He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. She reloaded.
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